“Uh—” I falter. “I… I guess I don’t really have one.”
“Everyone has a story,” Darya says quietly, right beside me. Her eyes, as light a blue as Valentin’s, are a free-flowing river that hasn’t frozen over.
Nadya slides right in, asking, “What did you do before? Work, school?”
“You could say I worked for my dad, I guess,” I cautiously admit. “At the club. And I—I’ve always wanted to open a café. Like my mom used to have.”
“Used to?” Gela prompts gently.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “She died. When I was twelve.”
There is no lapse into awkward silence at the revelation.
“That fuckingsucks,babe,” Nadya says emphatically. “I’m sorry.”
“A café,” Darya muses, looking intrigued. It’s the first time she’s set her book down. I feel strangely honored. “Interesting.”
“Itis,” Gela agrees eagerly. “That’s great! Have you thought about—”
Before I can grasp it, they’re off. Asking questions and offering suggestions. Pulling me into their magnetic orbit as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Like I belong here.
Like I’ve belonged anywhere, ever.
Amidst it all, overwhelm grasps me by the throat. I watch Iosif tease Nadya about something, reaching out to tug at her long, silver braid. His whole face transforms when he laughs with her, childlike and snickering. Trifon kisses Yulia’s temple with such tenderness, absentmindedly, feeding her bites of food while she feeds their baby. Valentin and Gela are involved in their own conversations, never directly facing each other, and his hand never leaves her thigh, nor hers from on top of his.
It’s a family.
This is what a family looks like.
Even when mom was alive, I never had any idea of what it looked like, did I? I had no idea at all.
I never had this.
Chapter 9 - Iosif
I watch her, curled up against the door, as far as she can get when we’re sharing a backseat. Her breathing is too careful, too measured. Her small hands are bundled into little fists in her lap. Every so often, they’ll clench.
“You’re fucking awful at this,” I groan, done waiting for her.
Her eyes snap open. “Hmm?”
“Faking sleep,” I add. “You’re too tense.”
She sits up, spine turning ramrod straight. “Maybe,” she huffs, stubbornly, “I was resting my eyes. Did you consider that?”
“For twenty minutes?”
“It’s been a long night,” she says meekly after a telltale pause.
“Yeah,” I agree. “At what point of that long night did you pick something to flip out about?”
Her entire face crumples. Her eyes shut tightly, like I’m causing her pain. She is fucking perplexing.
“Janella. Don’t.”
“I didn’t do anything,” she says softly, no fire to her words.
